The snow lay deep on the ground the day Joe was buried. In the next plot Mrs. Irving's marble angel wore a white fur collarette; there were soft new feathers of snow on the marble wings. The ribbon on the wreath of blue and moth-colored pansies lying on Joe's coffin was all snow stained. Carrie Pyne couldn't help noticing, though she was shocked at herself for being able to see anything. Mr. Partridge had on arctics. She could see them under his cassock. Her own feet were two solid pieces of ice. Her nose needed blowing, but her handkerchief was of no more use, simply soaking. She tried to manage by sniffing.
She stole a frightened glance at Kate. That was the way she imagined sleepwalkers looked, and they said you must never wake them suddenly, or something awful happened.
The tears poured down Carrie's face. She had loved Joe. He had been kinder to her than anyone else in the world, joking with her and teasing her, and now he was dead.
The wind twisted black veils, reddened noses, and made the moth-colored pansies flutter. High in the blowing, brightening sky a bird was soaring and floating.
Our soul is escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers: the snare is broken, and we are escaped.
